


If I Die, Survive Me

by yet_intrepid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Communication, F/M, Pre-Series, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2080287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam needs for everything to say "Jess is here" and for nothing to say "Jess could go."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Die, Survive Me

“Do you ever think about dying?” Jess says one night, and Sam chokes back a dry laugh because when doesn’t he; when hasn’t he; all his life death has hovered darkly on the horizon. But she’s shy and serious and so he takes her hands, breathes until the bitterness floods away.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” Her lashes fall against her cheeks. “Today. A poem.”

“Gotta be careful with those poems,” murmurs Sam. Teasing. Laughing gently, caring.

“If I die,” says Jess, and Sam’s eyes fly up to hers, a protest falling silent on his lips when he realizes she’s quoting. “If I die,” she says, “survive me with such a pure force, you make the pallor and the coldness rage.”

“Neruda,” he guesses, because that’s their game and he needs the game; he needs everything to say _Jess is here_  and nothing to say  _Jess could go_.

She grins at him. “You’re good,” she says, and reaches for a book. Shows him the page.

He reads aloud. “Flash your indelible eyes from south to south, from sun to sun, till your mouth sings like a guitar.”        

And then her voice, like sun itself as it rises. “I don’t want your laugh or your footsteps to waver; I don’t want my legacy of happiness to die—”

“Jess,” he interrupts. And then he can’t say anything else for a minute, just  _Jess, Jess, Jess,_  hardly breathing while she pulls him to her and he hides his face in her hair. “Jess,” he murmurs against her collarbone, “you’re not going to die. Your happiness doesn’t need a legacy because  _you’re not going to die_.”

“One of us will,” she says, at once close and far away. “Either we’ll break up, or one of us will die. Grief is part of life, so why pretend it won’t be part of ours?”

Because it has been too much of mine already, Sam wants to say. Because when people die, the ones who get left are never the same. They change, and I’ve seen it, and I don’t like it. I don’t want that to be me. Or you. Oh God, I don’t want that to be you.

“Jess,” Sam says. “We—we have what we have, you know? Sure, we’ll lose it in the end. Somehow, some way. But right now we have it and—can’t that be enough?”

Her brow wrinkles. “Of course it’s enough,” she says. “But Sam, I want you to be happy. No matter what comes of this, of us.”

If this were anyone else Sam would think a breakup was on the horizon. But this is Jess, Jess who does not hide in insinuations. This is Jess, who sat down with him three months ago because something wasn’t working between them and she wanted to understand what it was. Dean always told him to run far and fast if a girl ever brought out the words  _we need to talk_ , and so many of his guy friends here say the same, but Sam welcomes those words from Jess, if only because her insistence on open, deliberate communication lets him feel safe in daily conversation. If she hated him, he would not be able to pretend she loved him. If she thought he was dangerous, she would be taking steps to ensure her own safety. And if she wanted to end the relationship, he wouldn’t have to guess that.

So he doesn’t guess. He holds her, and he knows her words are untainted and true. Jess wants him to be happy. She wants him to be happy whether she’s here or gone, alive or dead.

She doesn’t want to be his lifeline. She wants him to hold to life itself, her hands beside his, firmly grasping. She wants them to go side by side until they no longer can, and then to go on.

And then he knows what he needs to say. He doesn’t know how, really, but Jess likes to know his thoughts even when they’re half-formed.

“You’re so full of happiness, Jess,” he says. His eyes flit between her face and their twined hands. “I don’t know how you do it. Even when you’re upset, I still—I guess it’s who you are, or you having peace with yourself, or something. But, uh. It’s like you planted that in me, you know? A seed, or a spark. And when I see you happy that feeds it. But it’s figuring out how to grow on its own, too, as long as nobody stamps it out. And I mean, I don’t know for sure—but I want it to survive. No matter what.”

She smiles. Shakes her head. “I didn’t plant anything, Sam,” she says. “You’ve always had the seed of happiness in you. Someone just had to tell it that it was okay to grow.”

It’s okay to grow, he repeats to himself. It’s okay for happiness to grow.

And with the thought that their happiness can survive, both life and death seem brighter.


End file.
